Five Gadgets Tony Invented For SHIELD's Convenience (1 he didn't)
by kyaticlikestea
Summary: When SHIELD forces the Avengers to live together at Stark Tower, in order to make life easier for all those at the newly renamed Avengers Tower, Tony is required to invent like he's never invented before. At first, he thinks he's doing it for an easy life, but as time passes, he begins to question who he's really doing it for, and what point he's really trying to prove.
1. Chapter 1

In the months immediately following what Tony liked to call 'The Day Shit Almost Went Down But Didn't Because Of Tony Stark's Heroic Bravery And Stunning Pectorals', S.H.I.E.L.D decided that it would be for the best if all the Avengers were to stay in one location.

You could be forgiven for assuming that they would choose a top secret military base as the location for the greatest slumber party of all time, but apparently the safest building in the country at that time was Stark Towers.

There had been much protesting about this. Tony, at first, had been reluctant to give up the use of four whole floors of his building, saying that the introduction of a communal area greatly reduced the number of surfaces available for copulation. Steve had been worried that Tony would decide to copulate on these surfaces anyway, and he didn't want to be witness to that. Bruce, bless him, had been afraid of 'hulking out' in Tony's home and didn't want to cause millions of dollars worth of irreparable damage. Tony had patted him on the head and reassured him that he was Tony Stark, bitch, and nothing was irreparable on his watch. Heck, he'd even repaired his watch and added a voice activated egg timer. He didn't even like eggs. Natasha hadn't wanted to live somewhere with people she was likely to want to assassinate after ten minutes, but was eventually persuaded on the promise that she'd have her own room. She later demanded her own floor, and her demands were met after a long standoff involving origami swans and paperclips. Clint was afraid of being caged. Tony responded by taking offence at this, assuming Clint thought his home was small. Clint wanted an easy life and accepted.

Thor was a different matter. S.H.I.E.L.D soon found out that it was a lot harder to contain a demi-god from another world than one might at first expect. They relied on plan B.

Plan B was Tony Stark.

* * *

Tony Stark resents being plan B. He isn't happy being anything but plan A, and he definitely isn't keen on being named after a form of birth control. Regardless, he performs his role with cunning and aplomb.

It's been an idea long in the making, Tony thinks. There'll always be consumer demand for Pop Tarts, and that consumer demand will more than likely double each day Thor was on Earth. The revelation comes to Tony some three months after TDSAWDBDBOTSHBASP.

The Avengers have been living in Stark Towers for a month. Thor has been flitting back and forth between Asgard and Midgard like a fickle mosquito and it's starting to give Tony a headache. One morning - well, 2pm - Tony rises from his beauty sleep and stumbles into the kitchen, where he's greeted by a rather odd sight indeed.

Thor is sat at the kitchen table in front of a plate piled at least a metre high with Pop Tarts. Bruce, dishevelled and sweaty, is slaving over a hot toaster. Steve sits at the breakfast bar, doodling. Tony definitely remains completely 100% oblivious to the fact that the super soldier serum apparently allows the recipient to look dashing even in sweatpants.

"What in the name of Thor's biceps is going on?" Tony asks. Bruce looks at him, wild-eyed and desperate.

"Pop Tarts," he replies. Tony takes a sip of the coffee he'd had JARVIS make him as a wake-up call.

"I can see that," he says. "But how, what, when and why? I don't need to ask who, obviously."

"Whom," Steve corrects, shading an area of paper so darkly that Tony thinks he might be drawing his soul.

"I have discovered that there is indeed no such thing as too much of a good thing!" Thor announces, stuffing a Pop Tart into his mouth. Tony raises an eyebrow.

"You should try ecstasy," he quips. Bruce looks alarmed. Tony raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Thor's eaten, at last count, seventy-eight of them," Steve continues. Tony's eyes widen.

"Seventy eight?" he repeats. Steve nods.

"Seventy nine, now," he says. Sure enough, Thor has crammed another into his mouth. His beard now appears to consist more of crumbs than hair.

"Where did he get them all?" Tony asks. Bruce makes a choking sound.

"The store," he whispers. "I was there at opening time, bang on 6am."

Tony pats Bruce on the shoulder.

"And you've been on toaster duty ever since?"

Bruce nods fearfully.

"It's true," says the toaster. "I have been at full capacity since approximately 0624 hours. I can't help but feel as though I should be above this."

"You're getting far too cheeky for your own good," says Tony. "And you're not above anything. You're a toaster."

Bruce whimpers.

"The toaster talks?" Steve asks, putting down his pencil. Tony grins.

"Sure it does," he replies. "This is Stark Tower. If it can talk, it talks. If it can calculate missile trajectories, it calculates missile trajectories. If it can cook eighty Pop Tarts, then it can... oh. Oh. There's an idea."

Steve swings his legs over the stool and faces Tony, meeting his eye with a confused glare.

"_What's_ an idea?" he asks carefully.

Tony shrugs, standing on tip-toes and stealing the top Pop Tart from Thor's mountainous plate. Thor glares at him.

"Pop Tart Toaster," Tony replies. "JARVIS, tell me how brilliant I am."

"Beyond words, sir," the voice of JARVIS replies. Tony beams. Steve raises an eyebrow.

"Did you configure it to say that?" he asks. Tony takes another Pop Tart and shrugs. He chooses to ignore the 'it'. It's not like Steve is exactly well-versed in AI pronouns.

"I programmed JARVIS to always tell the truth," he answers. "JARVIS, JARVIS, in the walls, who is the fairest of them all?"

"That would be either Captain Rogers or Thor Odinson, sir, if I am to take into account the results of public research polls and scientific research on facial symmetry," JARVIS answers. Tony looks at Steve. Steve raises an eyebrow.

"I guess I got a few wires crossed." Tony shrugs, reaching up to take another Pop Tart. Thor moves the plate out of his reach.

"Friend Tony, if you attempt to steal another, I will be forced to warn you off with Mjolnir," he states. Tony sighs.

"You're going to eat me out of house and home, you know," he says. "But I can fix that. Give me two hours."

He leaves the kitchen to the sounds of Steve's incredulous laughter and Bruce's terrified sobs.

* * *

JARVIS announces the return of Tony Stark to the kitchen area with the custom fanfare Tony has chosen; Justin Timberlake's 'Sexyback'. He had been worried when he programmed it that it would become tiresome eventually. So far, after six months, it's still as hilarious as ever. He still needs to think of fanfares to announce the arrival of the other Avengers. He's currently stuck on ideas for Bruce. 'Relax' is the obvious suggestion, but he's not sure how comfortable Bruce would be having his entrance to any room announced by a song about sexual patience. An uncomfortable Bruce often means broken furniture and months of nightmares, so he's decided to hold off on that one.

Tony stalks triumphantly into the kitchen, carrying a silver box about the size of a toaster, perhaps slightly smaller. Bruce looks at it as though it might contain Hope itself. Steve seems wary. Thor is too focused on his one hundred and eighth Pop Tart (Tony has asked JARVIS to keep count) to notice.

"I come bearing gifts," Tony announces. He pauses. "Well. A gift. Although if you count the gift of my presence, then yeah. Plural."

He sets the silver box down on the table and beams. The rest of the room wait for an explanation. When it doesn't come, Steve rises to the challenge.

"What is it?" he asks, carefully.

"It's a Pop Tart Toaster," Tony replies. Bruce looks confused.

"All toasters are Pop Tart toasters," he says. "That's the point of Pop Tarts. You toast them. In toasters. I may be a genius, Stark, but even Thor has realised that."

Tony grins.

"Ah, but this is a special kind of toaster," he explains. He presses a small red button on the side of the Pop Tart Toaster, and a silver tray slides out, reminscent of a compact disk tray on the computers Tony likes to look at in museums sometimes. "Look. You put the ingredients of a Pop Tart in here – namely sugar, happiness and rainbows, although you should read the pack for further information – and within five minutes, this little baby has whipped you up the perfect breakfast treat, toasted to, well, perfection. Et voila. The Pop Tart Toaster. No need for Banner to trek to the store at 6am every morning to stock up."

Thor looks at it curiously.

"You can touch it," Tony says. "Only in context, though."

Steve picks up the nearest empty Pop Tart box.

"Do we even have all these ingredients?" he asks. "It looks like a whole lot of flavouring and artificial colours to me."

"That's the joy of chemistry," Tony beams. "This little beauty does all that for you."

Steve seems unconvinced.

"It doesn't sound all that healthy," he says. Tony shrugs.

"It's not," he agrees. "But no-one eats Pop Tarts because they want perfect abs worthy of Captain America."

He turns to Bruce.

"I hereby relinquish you of toaster duty," he says, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I have intentionally designed this so that even a dog could use it. I'm pretty sure Thor's capable of shoving some ingredients into a tray and waiting for a few seconds."

Thor demonstrates his capabilities by promptly shoving an entire Pop Tart into the tray. Tony sighs.

"OK, so perhaps there's a few design kinks that need to be worked out," he admits. "But the premise is there."

Steve raises an eyebrow.

"You are insane," he says. "I am living in a mental home. I'm going to wake up tomorrow and find that I'm being tube fed with all the other crackpots."

"That's offensive," Tony replies.

"THAT'S offensive," Steve says, pointing to the crumb-filled Pop Tart Toaster.

"I take umbrage at that," says the Pop Tart Toaster.

"I've created a monster," Tony groans.

Thor quietly eats another Pop Tart. Bruce pats Tony on the head.

"I've been relieved of my duties," he says. "I'll just leave you and Frankenstein the toaster over there to your romantic dinner."

"JARVIS," Tony asks, as Bruce skips out of the kitchen, a free man at last. "Why do I do this to myself?"

JARVIS is silent for a few seconds.

"There is a 67% probability that there is no logical reason," comes the eventual response.

Steve claps Tony on the shoulder.

"Bon appétit," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

It's really more a case of unfortunate timing that causes Coulson to move into Stark Towers with his superpowered subordinates than anything else. Really, it's not like they can't look after themselves. Sure, Nick Fury may have walked in on Natasha beating the living daylights out of Thor with a colander on the kitchen table whilst the Avengers cheered and placed bets, but that was one time. It's not like it always happens. And yeah, the next time Nick paid an unexpected visit to casa del Stark, he may have happened upon Bruce and Tony mixing explosives in a Ming vase in the reception room.

But really. Two potentially fatal incidents aren't exactly cause for Fury to force them to get a permanent babysitter. This is exactly what Tony says when Fury calls him into his office for a meeting. He arrives, takes one look at Coulson sitting opposite Fury's desk, his hands steepled under his chin in a characteristic display of annoyance, and lets out a string of swearwords that make even Fury wince.

"We don't actually need an au pair," Tony says.

"Sit down, Stark," Fury orders. Tony does because he's getting quite fond of this whole respiration business. Coulson shoots him an evil glare, and Tony realises that he might have got too attached to that hobby.

"Coulson is moving in to Avengers Tower," Fury continues. Tony opens his mouth to retort, because firstly, Avengers Tower? It's still Stark Tower, thank you very much. Did any of them help build it? No. He didn't think so. Secondly, Coulson is _not_ moving in. Coulson is about as much fun as a wet diaper.

"I don't like it any more than you, Stark," Coulson sighs.

"Well, you can't like it any less," Tony shoots back. Coulson raises an eyebrow and Tony wants to tell him no, he associates that gesture with someone he likes a lot more.

"Want to bet money on it?" Coulson asks. "I'll put up $1,000 cash."

"Ladies," says Fury, folding his arms. "Is this going to be a thing with you Avengers? Synchronised menstrual cycles? Look, Coulson is moving in and that's that. I don't give a damn whether you put him up in the basement or in a five star suite. It makes no difference to me. I'm just sick of the neighbours complaining about Thor throwing cutlery over the fence and Bruce blowing shit up. Got it?"

Tony and Coulson nod. Fury grins manically and it's a terrifying sight, all bright teeth and one eye, and Tony swallows hard.

He's got to sort this out.

* * *

The idea comes to him while he's channel surfing a few evenings later. Steve is sat on the couch next to him, his sketchbook balanced artfully on his lap, drawing one of Tony's decommissioned robots. It looks strange seeing one of his dead creations on paper.

Tony is sort of vaguely watching Judge Judy whilst also jotting down ideas for code updates on the new Starkpad when Steve says something so beautifully brilliant that Tony wants to grab him square by his broad shoulders and kiss him (even more than usual). He doesn't, though. He doesn't think Steve would consider that a reward. More of a brutally twisted punishment.

"The people on this show are really something," says Steve, idly shading silver. "I wish they could just lock them up and throw away the key. I think it would do America a lot of good."

Tony cries out, a genuine eureka moment, and leaps up off the sofa. Steve drops his pencil in shock and looks up at Tony, alarmed.

"You, Steve Rogers, are a genius!" Tony beams. Steve narrows his eyes suspiciously. "No, really," Tony continues. "They should make statues of you."

"They have, I think," Steve says, picking up his pencil and carrying on sketching. He's smiling.

"Well, they should make more," says Tony.

"I don't see what I've done that's so brilliant," Steve admits. Tony heads over to the door.

"We're going to lock Coulson up," he calls over his shoulder.

It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in before Steve throws down his pencil and rushes after Tony in horror.

* * *

Of course, Tony's not _actually_ going to lock Coulson up. For a start, he thinks Coulson could probably break out of Azkaban using little more than a toothpick and some dental floss. He's heard rumours that Coulson once escaped from Afghani terrorists with the aid of nothing but a box of matchsticks. That particular story resonates with Tony more than he'd like to admit, but he digresses. Secondly, he's pretty sure that if Fury found out he'd been imprisoning senior agents, he'd be forced to say goodbye to any hopes he might have had of passing on his genes. No, Tony is not going to throw Coulson in jail. He's going to be a lot more inventive than that.

He spends a couple of days holed up in his workshop. On the third day, Steve sweet-talks Jarvis into letting him in (Tony makes a mental note to rewrite Jarvis so he's immune to flattery, before realising that if it weren't for this particular error, Jarvis would never let Tony get away with anything) and brings him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Tony accepts it without looking up, focusing on circuit boards and red wires.

Steve bites his nail, worriedly. After a few seconds, Tony gives up. He's not great at working with someone lingering behind him like a bad smell – although actually, Steve just smells like coffee and aftershave, which isn't wholly unpleasant – and he heaves out an exasperated sigh, turning to look at Steve.

"Did you want something?" he asks. Steve shakes his head slowly.

"Just checking you were still with us," he replies, and Tony feels like an asshole. He doesn't mean to get to snippy when he's working. It's always been a bad habit. Pepper would be standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and that look that he knew meant '_I am not impressed, you are being a moron'_. He's mildly surprised to realise that it doesn't hurt as much as it did to think of Pepper. He tentatively delves further into that particular thought. He remembers Pepper smiling when he finally decided to turn in for the night after spending a good 36 hours coding AI systems, thinks of the way her laugh sounded when she was in the throes of hysterics, imagines the future they thought they'd have. And it doesn't hurt. Maybe it stings a little, but it's bearable.

Interesting.

He suddenly realises he's been staring at Steve, eyes glazed over, the entire time. He clears his throat, embarrassed. Steve lifts an eyebrow.

"You're coming upstairs. Now," he says. Tony smirks.

"As flattered as I am, Cap," he says – and great, Steve's blushing – "I'm going to have to decline that tempting offer. AI systems don't build themselves." He pauses. "Although maybe they should," he continues. "The whole point of them is that they're sentient. Hmm. Interesting..."

Steve cuts him off by grabbing his wrist and pulling him to his feet. Tony is too startled to fight him off.

"It's not a request," Steve says, tone clipped and firm. Tony nods, wide-eyed.

"Yes, sir," he replies, attempting a feeble salute as he wobbles unsteadily on his feet. Steve sighs.

"Come here," he says, and before Tony knows where he is or what's right and left he's being thrown over Steve's shoulder in an approximation of a fireman's lift, and the last thing he thinks before he passes out from a mixture of exhaustion and shock is '_I could get used to this_'.

* * *

It's a bizarre thought, and he chooses to ignore it when, a few days later, Steve judges him well enough to return to the lab to continue working on his latest project. As the only Avenger who is essentially immune to all germs – although there was a worrying moment a few months ago when an alien plague broke out and Steve actually _coughed_ – Steve has taken on the role of nurse. He makes soup and tea with lemon for sneezing superheroes, reads bedtime stories to nauseous Hulks and wordlessly cleans up after hungover billionaires. He patiently listens to Thor bemoaning the fact that he's so ill he feels like a frost giant and, using his basic army medical training, carefully bandages Clint's wrist every time he sprains it by practising too much. It's only to be expected, then, that Steve bans Tony from all physical exertion for two days after he collapses.

However, he's given him the all clear now, and Tony is back in the lab, where he likes to be. Pepper would have told him off for being anti-social – quite fairly, he thinks – but he doesn't see it that way. He likes being alone. He likes that it gives him time to think. Or not think, as he's doing a spectacular job of doing right now.

With a flourish, he finishes the last bit of wiring and triumphantly closes the outer casing of his latest masterpiece, and it _is_ a masterpiece.

Agent Coulson's not going to know what hit him.

* * *

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!" Tony calls the next morning. The Avengers, all of whom – with the exception of Steve, who has gone for a run – are in the kitchen, stare at him, bleary-eyed and confused. Tony sighs. "A little more enthusiasm wouldn't go amiss."

Natasha blinks.

"Why are you a thing?" she asks. Tony attempts not to laugh.

"Try again," he says. She shoots him a withering glare.

"I said exactly what I meant to say," she retorts, because her English is perfect and Tony should know better than to question it. "I genuinely don't understand how you manage to exist. It's 7:30am. Why are you so..."

"Handsome?" Tony supplies. "Charismatic? Talented? Charitable?"

"Loud," Clint finishes for Natasha. Tony sticks his tongue out. Clint returns the gesture. Thor starts laughing into his Coco Pops.

"I think friend Tony has something he would like to show us," Thor declares. Tony nods.

"See, the big guy gets it," he says.

"I have come to learn that if you appear to be alive and well before midday, you intend to show off," Thor explains around a mouthful of chocolate cereal. Tony shrugs.

"It's a character flaw," he agrees. "My only one, though, so you should forgive it. Anyway, chop chop. Follow me! Glorious things abound in the third floor hallway."

He practically skips out of the kitchen, leaving a table of bemused superheroes in his wake. After a few moments, they give in and follow. Thor says goodbye to his bowl of Coco Pops. Bruce shakes his head.

* * *

"What in the name of Odin's wisdom is that?" Thor asks, poking the stamp-sized silver box underneath the door handle of his room. Tony puffs his chest out proudly.

"That," he explains. "Is a lock. A very special one."

"It just looks like the ones you get at hotels," Clint says doubtfully, prodding it. Thor looks at him protectively. Clint backs away. Tony stifles a peal of laughter.

"It's not," Tony assures him. "I've programmed it to respond only to the voice of whoever's room it is. Try it out, Thor."

Thor takes a deep breath and leans right in close to the lock. Tony thinks he might die with excitement. He hasn't revealed the true party piece yet.

"Greetings," Thor says, as gingerly as an Asgardian can be, which isn't very. "May I be granted entry to my chamber?"

"Password incorrect," says the lock in a tinny voice. "Very sorry," it adds after a short pause. Thor looks at Tony, one eyebrow raised.

"You have set a password?" he asks, incredulously. "You must tell me!"

"It's just your name," Tony replies. Thor looks at him disbelievingly. He clears his throat and turns back to lean into the lock.

"Thor," states Thor.

"Password incorrect," the lock counters. It doesn't apologise this time. It's probably getting fed up.

"Tony," booms Thor warningly. "If needs be, I shall summon Mjolnir. The door shall be broken down by the wrath of - "

"Whoa, whoa, no need for that, big guy," Tony says, hands outstretched and gesturing for Thor to calm down. He grins. "And that's the password."

Clint shakes his head. Natasha tuts. Bruce just grins. Thor sighs. With more than a slight air of shame, he leans into the lock one more time.

"Big guy," he says, slightly more quietly than his previous attempts. The lock clicks.

"Welcome to your glorious chamber, oh lord of Asgard," it intones metallically. Thor beams triumphantly like he's worked it all out by himself.

"This is truly a great and noble invention, friend Tony!" he declares. Tony shrugs.

"I try," he says. Turning to the other Avengers, he spreads his hands out in a parody of a gesture of goodwill. "Let's go find out your passwords," he says.

Bruce gulps.

* * *

It turns out that the other Avengers are slightly less pleased than Thor with their respective passwords. Tony ends up narrowly escaping a black eye from Natasha by the grace of his good reflexes. Honestly. He hadn't thought that '_Female Stalin'_ was _that_ offensive. Bruce had just sighed and shaken his head resignedly when he was forced to say '_jolly green giant'_ to gain access to his room. Clint had seemed positively nonplussed by his password of '_peppy midget'_.

Coulson, of course, remains stoic in the face of his humiliation after 'Phil', 'Coulson' and 'Phil Coulson' fail to open his door.

"Stark, I'm not in the mood," he says, face stern. Tony places a hand on his chest.

"Would I play games with you, Agent?" he says, wickedly. He watches the blood drain from Coulson's face as his password sinks in. Coulson swallows hard. He whispers '_Agent_' into the lock with about as much dignity as a turd on the sidewalk, and Tony has to escape down the hallway before doubling over in laughter.

By God, he's good.

* * *

Steve returns home a few hours later. Tony is in the kitchen with Bruce, arguing about who the greatest scientist of all time could be. Bruce doesn't agree that it's Tony.

Steve is dressed in his running clothes, a t-shirt and sweatpants, and Tony doesn't think he'll ever get used to seeing Steve in a t-shirt. It's not as though it's unattractive – Tony has eyes, for God's sake, he can appreciate that the man looks good in them – but it's oddly anachronistic, a man out of time in a modern man's clothes.

He wipes the sweat off his brow and eyes Tony and Bruce suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Debating," Tony replies. Bruce snorts.

"Fighting to the death," he corrects. Steve shakes his head, but he's grinning.

"I'm not putting money on this one," he says. Tony shrugs.

"You should," he says. "My odds are excellent."

Steve laughs.

"Not good enough."

"Where have you been, anyway?" Tony asks. "You've been gone for hours. Thought you were going for a run." Steve flushes slightly.

"I did. I went to Long Beach."

Tony starts.

"You ran all the way there and back?"

"Yes. Well. I jogged back."

"But Steve," Tony balks. "That's, what, thirty miles?"

Steve shrugs.

"Super soldier," he supplies. Bruce whistles.

"I'll leave you two to it," he says. "Just talking about exercise is giving me a stitch."

He walks out of the kitchen, looking rather pointedly at Tony, who raises both eyebrows. Bruce shakes his head and leaves. Steve looks confused.

"Is Bruce OK?" he asks. Tony nods.

"Yeah." He suddenly realises that he hasn't shown Steve his amazing new invention and his face lights up. Steve looks mildly alarmed. Tony is slightly wounded by the lack of faith Steve has in him, but realises that it's not entirely unfounded, which is an unsavoury thought. "Hey, I've got something cool to show you."

Steve narrows his eyes.

"'Cool'?" he asks. "In your opinion or a more general one?"

Tony places his hands on his hips and fixes Steve with a blank stare.

"In the opinion of everybody with a brain," he answers. Steve scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Tony sighs. "I promise you'll think it's cool," he says.

Steve nods.

"Lead the way," he says. Tony does.

* * *

When they get to Steve's room, Tony begins to feel nervous. What if Steve _doesn't_ think it's cool? That would suck for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, it would mean that Steve doesn't appreciate sexy technology, which means Steve is lame, which Tony doesn't like to think because that reflects badly on him. It's a fact that if you're crushing on someone lame, you're lame. That's just how it is. Secondly, it would blow because Tony's worked really hard on this and, although he didn't build it for Steve – he didn't, he built it to make an ass out of Coulson, and can he just say, mission fricking accomplished – it would still mean a lot to him to have his friend appreciate his hard work.

Tony clears his throat to speak, but Steve beats him to it.

"It's a lock!" Steve beams. "And it's got a little speaker. You're right, that _is_ cool."

Tony feels himself flushing red. He doesn't know why Steve complimenting his technology gets him so hot under the collar. OK, that's a lie. He totally knows why. He's just choosing to ignore it.

"You don't even know how it works yet," he mumbles. Steve smooths his index finger along the lock.

"No, but you're going to show me, right?" he says. Tony nods.

"You just have to say your name," he explains. Steve grins.

"Is that it? Doesn't sound very secure."

Tony pauses.

"Well," he says. "It only responds to your voice."

Steve nods slowly.

"And do the others have ones like this too?"

"Yeah," Tony says. He feels a quirk of a self-satisfied smile begin to creep across his lips and is powerless to stop it. "Although I was slightly more... creative, shall we say, with the name that the lock responded to."

Steve looks worried, his impressed smile flickering for a nano-second. Tony almost doesn't notice, but he does, because he always notices disapproval.

"And what's my name according to this system?" he asks, and Tony's not imagining it; he sounds slightly bitter. "Capsicle? American beefcake?" He rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "How else have you referred to me in the press?" he asks, musingly. "Oh yes, Stars and Stripes, Star Spangled Douchebag..."

"Steve," states Tony. Steve looks at him, confused.

"What?" he says. Tony looks at the floor and shifts his weight from his left foot to his right.

"It's Steve," Tony clarifies. "That's your password. That's what I called you."

"Oh," says Steve.

There's a moment's silence.

"Although I did call you those things to other people, a long time ago, and yeah, I'm sorry," Tony continues. "Really. But it's just Steve here."

Steve smiles, and it's a small, sad smile, but it's still a smile.

"I thought Star Spangled Douchebag was kind of funny," he admits. Tony laughs, relieved.

"It's not my best insult," he says. "Just ask Coulson."

"Oh, I will," promises Steve. He looks at the lock, runs his fingers across it. He's clearly impressed. He leans slightly into it. "Steve," he says, and he looks at Tony as the lock clicks open and welcomes him in its tinny little voice. He beams and Tony's heart maybe breaks, just a little, because he's just seen first-hand that he's already ruined any chances he may have had to prove to Steve that he's not the self-important rich guy the media says he is.

Who's he kidding. He never had any chance of that. He _is_ a self-important rich guy.

Steve looks at him, oddly. Tony feels his stomach twist into knots. He can't ignore it, no matter how much he'd like to.

"Are you OK?" Steve asks, frowning. Tony nods.

"Bad shawarma," he says. Steve grimaces.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he says. He pushes his door open with his foot and, before he goes into his room, he turns to look at Tony again. "Thanks, by the way," he says, smiling. "This is really great. I don't know why I like it so much, but I do. I think it's awesome."

Tony doesn't respond, just smiles weakly, and Steve returns the expression and closes the door quietly. When he's sure he's alone, Tony scuffs his feet on the carpet and walks away.

He thinks it's probably the best thing he's ever invented, and not because of what just happened. No. He's just pleased that he's managed to piss Coulson off.

Really.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's becoming a real problem," says Fury. Tony furrows his brow and nods slowly. He can understand it. He's been thinking the same thing.

"Yeah, I get that," he replies. He picks up the small dolphin ornament on Fury's desk, the joke of SHIELD headquarters when Fury's back is turned, and tosses it from hand to hand. He can figure this out. He's Tony Stark.

"Can you help?" Fury asks, steepling his fingers under his chin. His eyes are focused on the movement of the ornament. Tony makes a mental note not to drop it; he likes having both his legs, after all. It's probably of immense sentimental value, because it sure as hell isn't worth a lot of money. It's made of plaster, for a start. The word 'sentiment' is so far removed from Fury that he finds himself smiling.

"Of course I can," he answers. "You can bet your bottom dollar on it. And your top one, actually. And all the ones in the middle. Come on, bet me."

Fury's lip curls upwards. It's a smirk but it's surprisingly benevolent. If he didn't know better, he'd think that Fury was actually amused. That, however, would imply that Fury was capable of human emotion, and Tony has it on good authority (his own) that that is not the case.

"I trust you, Mr Stark," says Fury. He spreads his palms serenely. "The Avengers taskforce is in your capable hands."

Tony is so surprised by the vote of confidence that he doesn't predict the other man pinning his wrists to the table and stealing back the ornament. He's glad some things never change.

* * *

"Hey, Cap," Tony calls, dropping his keys in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. He knows it's a ridiculously archaic habit, but he likes the weight of proper keys in his pocket. There's something innately secure about it, even though the swipe-card system he's installed as a back-up is probably twice as hard to crack as a brass lock. "Got a sec?"

He knows that Steve has more than a second to spare. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor of the smallest living room, pencil tucked behind his right ear. He's hunched over a canvas, box of charcoals on the floor to his left. It's an endearing sight and at once impressive; although the canvas is largely blank, he can make out the pencil outline of something that looks a little like –

well. It's probably Tony's dad.

"Hold on a moment," says Steve, not looking up from his drawing. He pulls the pencil out from behind his ear and fills in a small area of shading on the canvas. For the few short seconds it takes, Tony just watches, sees him engrossed in something entirely. He wonders if this is how he looks to the others when he's in the lab, experimenting with circuit boards and daddy complexes.

"OK, I'm done. Did you want something?" Steve asks, meeting Tony's eye, and Tony's heart actually flips right over at the smudge of charcoal on Steve's cheekbone. It probably says a lot for how ridiculously out of control this crush is getting that he practically gets a hard-on at the presence of dirt on the other man's face, but he decides not to focus on that. There are greater issues at hand.

"Fury does," Tony answers. Steve looks confused. Tony sighs and thinks fuck it, shrugging off his suit jacket and sitting on the floor opposite Steve.

"Did I do something wrong?" Steve questions, picking the pencil up again and nervously tapping it on his knee.

"Not exactly," says Tony. "I mean, it's not entirely your fault."

Steve sighs.

"Out with it," he orders, resigned. "What facet of modern technology has evaded me now?"

"Pretty much all of it," Tony responds. At the crestfallen look on Steve's face, his heart sinks. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Steve says. "It's not your fault. I thought I was doing all right at catching up with stuff, but you know, there's so much to learn."

"I know."

"Do you?" Steve puts down the pencil and rests his head in his hands. He looks rather miserable and Tony is struck by the urge to pat his shoulder reassuringly. He doesn't, though. He'd never hear the end of it from Clint, who would inevitably find out. "You were born into a world with credit cards and computers and when I was born we still wore short pants until the age of sixteen."

"You'll get the hang of it," Tony assures him. "You live with the greatest technological genius the world has ever seen. You can't not get the hang of it."

Steve smirks.

"I wasn't aware Leonardo Da Vinci lived here too," he says. Tony dares to shove him companionably. He can't pretend he hasn't been craving the contact. Steve raises an eyebrow. "You want to start this?"

It takes Tony a few heart-stopping seconds to realise that Steve is referring to a shoving war and not a session of furious making out followed by rampant sexual intercourse. He doesn't imagine the disappointment.

"On second thoughts, no. I like my spleen where it is, thanks." He stands up and brushes an imaginary speck of dirt from his knee. Steve watches him, one eyebrow raised, curious.

"What's the plan, then?" he asks. Tony shrugs.

"Leave it up to me," he says. "I'll figure something out."

* * *

Tony does figure it out, of course, but it takes him a little while. He actually has to consult Bruce, which he'd rather not mention ever again because, genius or not, Bruce is a smug bastard when he wants to be. He spends three days solidly working in the lab. Fury calls him sixteen times. Tony answers once.

"Are we any closer to a solution?" Fury asks. Tony shrugs, trying not to dislodge the phone that's wedged between his jaw and his shoulder, then remembers that Fury can't actually see him over the phone.

"I don't know about you," he says around the wrench clenched between his teeth. "But yeah, I'm working on it." He finishes soldering that damn fiddly bit of circuit board, puts down the soldering iron and transfers the phone to his left hand, dropping the wrench into his right. Multi-tasking has never been his strong point.

"Well, that's good to hear," Fury says. "Because Agent Hill just tried to phone Steve and all she heard him say was 'I don't know how to answer a telephone call'. We need to fix this. Fast."

"All right, all right, keep your eye-patch on," Tony mutters. "Genius cannot be hurried. It's like a soufflé."

Fury's grimace is almost audible.

"Just don't fuck around too much, Stark," he growls. "This is kind of important shit, you know?"

Tony has always liked how Fury's mood can be directly correlated to the number of swearwords he manages to drop into his sentences.

"I'll try to fuck around the minimal amount," he assures him, and hangs up.

He then drinks six cups of espresso, because that's the minimal amount he needs to function.

* * *

Natasha comes to visit him in the lab on the second day. How she got in, Tony will never know, because the door was deadlocked and bolted. He nearly has a heart attack when he sees her idly leaning against the workbench next to him, clad in black, inspecting her fingernails.

"Jesus Christ," he cries, dropping his pliers in fright. "Warn a guy before you do your creepy Russian thing, won't you?"

"Sorry," says Natasha, smiling a falsely benign grin. "But I wanted to talk to you."

Tony sighs.

"Is it important?" he asks. "Because I'm kind of busy here, you know. Life-changing inventions don't just invent themselves. Although imagine if they did. That'd be kind of awesome, don't you think?"

"I don't really care," she replies.

"Well, why are you here?"

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away."

Natasha looks at him, and Tony has his second heart attack in as many minutes when he sees the kindness and concern carefully hidden behind her stony mask of stoicism. It's thickly veiled, but it's there.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were doing this for the right reasons," she says. Tony narrows his eyes.

"I don't follow."

"Yes you do."

And Tony does, of course he does. It's not like he can hide his goddamn huge crush on Captain America. He's always been terrible at concealing his emotions when it really counts. Pepper always said it was a good thing, but Tony's not so sure. You can't play your cards close to your chest when everyone knows you've got a shit hand.

"Look," he starts, but Natasha raises her hand, cutting him off.

"I'm not done," she says. "I know you're doing it to help him, Tony. I know that."

"Then what does it matter?" Tony bites back. "As long as it helps in the long run, then why is it important what my motivations are? Nothing's going to happen. I'm not acting on anything. The end result is exactly the same."

"No it's not. The process is different. It's not going to be the same, and you know that."

"I don't know that. And do you know why I don't know that? Because it's bullshit."

"You can tell yourself that if you want." Natasha steps away from the workbench and folds her arms across her chest. "But we both know that you're going to end up putting too much of yourself into this." Her face softens almost imperceptibly. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Tony scoffs.

"I'm made of stronger stuff than that," he says. He taps his arc reactor. "Starkium, to be exact. Discovered it myself. Takes more than a doe-eyed blonde with rippling pectorals to get through that."

"Tony," says Natasha, and then she's silent. Tony doesn't think there's much else to say.

"I won't get hurt," he says finally. "But I appreciate your stoic, Russian concern."

Natasha rolls her eyes.

"See that you don't," she says. "Fury would have your balls on a plate with broccoli."

"Caviar, I hope," Tony retorts, and Natasha leaves the lab with a smile. Tony can ignore the fact that it's blatantly false.

* * *

On the third day, Tony rests. He's finished. He doesn't think it's the best thing he's ever created – it's not even close. Actually, it's probably outshone by the talking teapot – but it'll do the job.

He picks it up and inspects it one last time. Fury can suck it. Stark Technologies are awesome.

* * *

Steve takes it gingerly from Tony's outstretched hands and squints, inspecting it.

"What is it?" he asks. Tony beams.

"Essentially, it's an encylopaedia," he answers. "But a really bad-ass one, and it doesn't have any of that boring shit about British Victorian foreign policy. Man, I would marry this encylopaedia if I could, have its knowledgeable babies."

"And how does it work?" Steve continues.

"Ever heard of a Kindle?" Tony asks. Steve shakes his head slowly. Tony sighs. "Nope, OK. Should have seen that coming. Forget the Kindle. Basically, it's kind of like an electronic book. It's an instruction manual to daily modern life. It collates all the relevant data from the internet, filters it and applies it to an inputted query, then rearranges it into a handy how-to format."

Steve looks at him blankly.

"In English?"

Tony sighs. He seems to do this a lot with Steve, he recognises. He wonders why he doesn't mind the constant exasperation.

"In pre-human speak, you type in – or speak, it has voice recognition – what you want to know about – say you want to learn how to use a cell phone, you type that in – and it'll come up with a list of instructions and helpful hints for you."

Steve looks cautious. Tony takes the encylopaedia from him and tsks.

"You don't believe me, I see," he says. "Look, I'll show you. Let's pretend I'm an idiot and have no idea how to work a toaster." He types in the word 'toaster' and hands the device back to Steve. Steve's eyes scan the screen excitedly and a smile spreads across his face. Tony feels himself flush.

"'_Place bread in slot and push down the button. Some models may have a dial with numbers. This will control the length of time for which the bread is in the toaster_'." He looks up at Tony and grins like a child let loose in a sweet shop. "It knows what I want to know! I never thought I'd be so impressed by a toaster manual!"

"Well, this one does have bells and whistles. Not literally. That would be erroneous."

"It's awesome, Tony," beams Steve. "Seriously. Thank you. I might have half a chance at eventually catching up with you guys now."

Tony feels the warm glow of pride and something else.

"Don't mention it," he says. "But actually do, because I love hearing about how awesome I am."

"Pretty great."

"Astonishing."

"Occasionally more than decent."

"Astounding."

"Sickening," says Clint, and Tony turns around to see him leaning in the doorframe of Steve's room, amused. "Tony, you are the vainest man I know."

"If you looked like this, you'd be just as vain," Tony protests. "Come on. It's a struggle to resist getting to third base with myself. Sometimes, I can't help myself."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"If I type 'reality check' into this, will it help you?" he asks.

Tony shoves him. Clint rolls his eyes and walks out. Steve laughs.

"So, you like it then?" Tony asks. Steve grins.

"I really do," he says. "Thank you."

"Any time," says Tony, and he experiences a distinctly unpleasant twist in his gut when he realises that he really means it.

He may or may not be completely screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

"I need you to help me," says Steve. "Please."

Tony looks at him. He's nervously looking down at the floor – and it's definitely out of nerves, because the carpet is not as interesting as Steve is currently making it out to be – and rocking on his heels, and seeing Captain America look so inherently worried is a sight that could make even Nick Fury acquiesce.

Tony sets down the soldering iron.

"How?" he asks.

Steve bites his lip, but doesn't show any sign of actually answering Tony's question. Tony sighs.

"I need something to go on, Cap," he says. "Otherwise I'll just invent you a talking microwave. That's not a bad idea, actually. The perfect baked potato..."

"I need to know how to tell if someone... _likes_ you," Steve answers, finally.

Tony's blood runs cold. Steve knows. Steve has become aware of his massive and inappropriate crush on him and he's calling his bluff. Oh God. This is the end. He's going to have to pack up shop and move to somewhere where no-one knows his name, which leaves about four places on Earth as real candidates, and he won't have access to proper dentistry and all his teeth will fall out and he'll gamble away his fortune to try and numb the pain of being toothless and end up living under a bridge, where not even the trolls will take pity on him.

He clears his throat. He can do this. He can divert Steve's attention.

"Why? Do you have the hots for someone?"

Steve flushes red, and that's not what Tony was expecting. He feels his heart sink. At least Steve doesn't know, though. That's something.

Swallowing down the bitter taste of disappointment, Tony claps his hands together and tries his very best to be excited at the prospect of inventing something that could revolutionise the world as he knows it.

"I can help you, Cap," he says. "But it'll have to be through the medium of technology, because I'm not exactly great at the whole dating thing. I always just assume everyone likes me. I mean, it's always true, obviously, but they don't always want to admit it, so that can be horribly awkward."

"I don't - "

"Like me, yes, I know," Tony interrupts, because he doesn't want to hear it come from the other man's lips. It's hard enough hearing it from his own. "But regardless of my incredibly successful dating history, I can help you. Just give me a few days, OK?"

Steve opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it again and nods.

"OK."

Tony offers him a smile that's second place, if not winning.

"I'll let you know when it's done," he informs him, because this is essentially a business transaction, and Steve nods again.

"Thanks," he says.

"Don't mention it," says Tony. He really hopes he doesn't. His heart's already full of shrapnel. It doesn't need to be full of pointless hope as well.

* * *

Pepper comes to see him that night. He's sitting on the floor of the third largest bathroom, blueprints surrounding him, brainstorming ideas.

Pepper takes one look at him, and sighs.

"Please tell me that's not for Steve again," she says, folding her arms and leaning against the doorway. Tony looks up at her, a pen between his teeth.

"No," he lies. Pepper raises an eyebrow.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Tony."

He takes the pen from his mouth and tucks it behind his ear, turning on the charm.

"Really? But you look so youthful, Pep! Really, not a wrinkle in sight. And have you lost weight? Not that you needed to, I mean, but - "

"You have to stop doing this to yourself." She uncrosses her arms and crouches down next to him, and he can smell her perfume, the one he bought her for their second anniversary. That was the year she left him. He's surprised she kept it.

He swallows.

"Doing what? I'm not doing anything to myself," he says, the untruths coming easily with practice. "Unless you mean _that, _and really Pep, I keep telling you that it's a perfectly healthy habit..."

"You know, I told him to talk to you," she interjects, cutting him off mid-bullshit. "Whatever he asked you, whatever made you do this, you've misinterpreted it. He doesn't want a machine, Tony. He wants something else."

"Like what?" Tony asks, bitterly. He's sort of fed up of being told what other people want, like he has some sort of obligation to drop everything and give it to them because he's the one with the eleven figure bank account. "This is all I can give, Pep. Money and machines. And it's all I'm offering."

Pepper shakes her head, a sad expression on her face that would once have made Tony try anything to make her smile again. Now, it just makes him tired.

"You can give so much more than that, and you know it." She pulls one of the blueprints aside and inspects it half-heartedly. "I've seen it."

Tony barks out a laugh.

"And you stopped wanting it, didn't you?" he says. "And that's just it. People _want_ this. Anything else I might want to give isn't really in particularly high demand right now. The technology stocks are looking pretty good, Pep. Everything else? Not so much."

Pepper just looks at him. She's never been easy to read, which Tony thinks has always been part of her appeal, but now it's obvious that she's disappointed.

"I want to help you, Tony," she sighs. "But I don't think you want to help yourself."

Tony's done with this. He has a machine to finish and he hasn't factored time into his day for psychoanalysis.

"Goodnight, Pepper," he says, hoping there's an air of finality to his voice.

There is. Pepper gives him one last, desperate look, and leaves.

It hurts a little that it's so easy for her to do. It's never been that simple before. Even when she left him for good, she lingered for months. The smell of her shampoo on the pillow, the jars of expensive coffee she favoured in the cupboards and the way she made Tony feel when she smiled; it's taken years for them to fade. Now, it just takes the closing of a door and she's gone.

Tony glances over one of the blueprints before giving up, his head in his hands. He's never been good with defeat, and this feels a lot like surrender.

* * *

Bruce and Thor corner him at 5pm the next day. Tony's still in bed when he hears a loud knock at his bedroom door that can only have been made by a strong, Asgardian hand.

"I'm dead," he calls out. "The funeral's tomorrow. Wear black and bring your fondest memories."

"Let us in, Stark," comes Bruce's voice from the other side. Tony curls himself more tightly into a ball of sheets in response.

"Friend Tony," cries Thor, knocking again and making the room shake. "It is most important that we speak to you now!"

"No wisdom can be gained from the tongues of the dead!" Tony shouts in reply.

"Please, Tony," calls Bruce, and he sounds a little desperate. Tony's intrigue is peaked. He can't help it. He's never been able to resist a good disaster, except for when it concerns his own life choices.

"We shall have no choice but to knock the door down!" Thor shouts.

Tony would like to see him try. He'd also like to see them leave.

"The dead tell tall tales!" he retorts.

There's a pause, and he can hear mumbled voices from outside. Then, there's the click of a lock, and the door swings open. Bruce, Thor and Natasha walk in.

"Judas," says Tony to Natasha. She shrugs.

"She used a teaspoon," states Bruce, incredulously. To prove it, Natasha waves the implement in the air.

Thor claps his hands together.

"Friend Bruce, you must fetch friend Clint at once," he orders. Surprisingly, Bruce nods curtly and leaves to do the Asgardian's bidding. "I will carry Tony over my shoulder to ensure he does not attempt to flee."

"You will not!" Tony argues.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, and Tony shrinks back into the pillows.

Thor does.

* * *

"So, just to check," Tony says. "This is a hostage situation, right?"

Clint fixes him with an irritated glare. Tony sticks his tongue out in response, and Clint looks mildly disgusted.

"You're not a hostage, Stark," Natasha informs him. "You're a friend in need," she adds, falsely sweet.

"Just so you know, I'm telling Coulson about this," Tony tells them. He shifts on the sofa slightly, trying to get more comfortable, which is a difficult task considering he's wrapped tightly in about six blankets, held together by the heavy weight of Mjolnir. "He'll serve you all a steaming hot cup of whoop-ass."

"We just want to help you," Bruce cuts in. "Because - "

"Because watching you mope over Steve whilst steadfastly refusing to do anything about it is seriously cramping our style," interrupts Clint. He pauses for effect. "Seriously. I haven't got laid in about six months, and I'm a red-blooded male, Stark. Blue balls don't become me."

"I am ashamed to be part of your boyband," Tony tells him.

"Bite me."

"No thanks, some STDs can be transferred via saliva."

Natasha stands up. Tony and Clint fall silent, wide-eyed. Tony doesn't want to end his life this way.

"Tony and Clint, be quiet. I have a teaspoon and I'm not afraid to use it," she says. She turns to Bruce. "Bruce, tell him what you know."

Bruce sighs and folds his arms.

"It's not a lot," he begins. "But you know how you're making this machine for Steve because he said he liked someone?"

"Yes," Tony replies, cautiously. He's not sure where this is going, but it can't be anywhere pretty.

"Well, you're making it because he asked you for advice, right?"

"I am."

"And there it is!" Bruce finishes, beaming triumphantly like he's just won the gold medal for thinking, rather than the bronze medal for idiocy that Tony's considering presenting to him.

"Take me back a few steps," Tony says. "Maybe to the bit where it stopped making sense, which I think was the beginning."

Bruce groans. Thor steps in.

"What friend Bruce is trying to say," he says. "Is that there are a number of people under this roof. Friend Steve could have asked any one of us for advice. Many of us have been courting the same woman for several years. However, he asked you. Surely this says something?"

Tony blinks.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It says that he didn't want to ask an alien, an assassin or a giant green goblin for help. Jesus, compared to you lot, I'm Dr Phil."

"I do not - "

"Look," Tony sighs. "I see what you're getting at. Really, I do. But it's bullshit. It is. So can you let me get back to my workshop, please? I have a life to lead."

Thor looks at Bruce. Bruce looks at Natasha. She looks at Tony, and sighs.

"Let him go," she orders. Thor lifts Mjolnir and Tony stands up, turning to face them all.

"Thanks for the intervention, guys," he says. "But please don't kidnap me again. It was very emasculating."

He thinks he hears Clint call him something incredibly rude under his breath as he leaves, but he doesn't really care. They're all clearly sipping from the crazy side of the cup.

Steve asked him because they're friends, closer friends than any of the other Avengers seem to be, with the possible exception of Natasha and Clint, who don't really count because they have history (in Budapest, of all places). He doesn't understand why they're feeding him false hope on a drip. If he wants some fake courage, he'll go to the wine cellar.

He goes to the wine cellar.

* * *

It's two days later when Tony finally feels happy enough with his invention to show Steve. It's not perfect, of course. Nothing he does seems to be these days. There's always something missing, which he thinks is sod's law. It's close enough, though. It works. That's the main thing.

Steve takes the little silver device from Tony and looks at it, a little perplexed.

"What does it do?" he asks. Tony likes this part.

"Well, contrary to its appearance, it doesn't control the television," he starts. Steve grins. Tony's getting better at making technological references that Steve will actually understand, and Steve clearly appreciates it, which doesn't help Tony's overall situation. "Basically, it's a sort of human scanner. It measures people's biological and chemical reactions to you. Point it at the person you like, and it'll scan their heart-rate, temperature, pupil dilation and a whole array of other fun and disgusting bodily parts and tell you a percentage likelihood that they feel the same way."

Steve nods, slowly.

"I think I understand," he says. "It sounds complicated."

Tony shrugs, falsely modest.

"I've made more complex sandwich toasters," he replies. Steve rolls his eyes, grinning.

"Well, it's still great," he says. He pauses. "Although, isn't it a little underhand?"

Tony frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Steve begins. "It smacks a little of privacy invasion."

Tony scoffs. This is the 21st century. Privacy is a foreign concept.

"That's not important," he says. "Trust me."

Steve shrugs.

"I'm a man from the past," he says, a little sadly. "I'll trust you on that."

"You should. I'm inherently trustworthy."

Steve laughs. He looks at the scanner again, turns it over in his hand and really _looks_ at it in a way that people who are used to technology never really do. It makes Tony feel warm inside, like a man made of toast instead of beauty and chiselled cheekbones. It's nice to have his technology appreciated like the artwork it really is. Tony wants to thank Steve for liking everything he does, because no-one else seems to any more unless it's capable of blowing up entire continents.

Then, Steve presses the red button.

Time moves in slow motion.

The LED at the end of the scanner lights up green, and Steve looks at Tony, wide-eyed, as Tony realises with a sinking feeling that the scanner is pointed at _him, _and is currently measuring his biological reactions to Steve, the man he lo – really likes, and who definitely doesn't like him back because he's Steve Rogers, he's Captain America.

Tony's mind rushes from A to B to Z but he can't get out of this one. The scanner has collected all the information it needs. It's noticed his racing pulse, his slightly elevated temperature, his wide pupils, the direction of his bloodflow.

The scanner starts flashing red. Tony wants to grab it and smash it into a million pieces, because Steve knows. It's the one secret Tony's been happy to keep, and it's out.

Steve's eyes widen even more in shock. Tony gulps.

"Um," he says, eloquently and articulately.

"OK," says Steve. "Well, I - "

"Yeah," Tony agrees. "OK. I'll see you around."

And then Tony's gone, he's running down the hallway into his workshop with the newly reinforced deadlocks, and Steve's calling after him but there's no way Tony's going to turn around to hear the rejection he knows is coming. He doesn't need to hear Steve say it when he's imagined it so many times before.

He slams the doors behind him and tells JARVIS to let no-one in, on any account. He manually resets the overrides so that even Pepper will be stuck outside.

He's completely, totally and utterly screwed.

The realisation hits him hard, makes him double over and almost retch because this is the first time he's _felt_ since Pepper, and he doesn't want a repeat of that.

He can hear Steve knocking on the door, fruitlessly telling JARVIS to let him in.

JARVIS ignores him, and so does Tony.

And of course, Steve leaves eventually. It takes two hours, but he leaves. They always do.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony isn't pining. That might be what Pepper says when she manages to slip an angrily worded note into the workshop, but it's not true. She's got it all wrong. Tony isn't wallowing in grief over a relationship that was never going to work out.

No. He's being very manly about the whole situation. He's even grown a bit more of a beard, although truthfully, that's largely because he doesn't have any way of shaving without leaving the lab, and he's not going to do that any time soon. He can't. The uncrackable lock he's working on won't build itself.

He's only working on a rough prototype, but it's looking promising. He's coded it beyond override capabilities. That shouldn't be possible, of course, but he's Tony Stark.

From the desk drawer, he can hear the first few bars of AC/DC's _Back in Black_, and he shakes his head. Pepper's calling him. No doubt she intends to talk him out of his self-imposed exile, and he is not in the mood to hear about it.

With a flourish, he finishes inputting the final code that will make the lock impenetrable to even the most technologically advanced burglars. In this case, of course, he just needs it to be impenetrable to anyone who might be in Stark Tower and have the intention of dragging Tony out of his workshop, but it never hurts to be careful, he reasons.

* * *

The lock does its job. Over the course of the next two days, Tony's phone rings sixteen times. He doesn't answer it once. Seven people attempt to crack the lock. No-one succeeds, although Bruce does come worryingly close, prompting a hurried addition to the coding.

Tony knows how it must look. He's well aware that his actions will be mistaken for some sort of childish petulance, an inability to face his fears, but he doesn't particularly care. Heck, he thinks he'd rather they thought him a coward than have to talk to Steve.

He casts his mind back a few days, and he shudders. He thinks about the wide-eyed expression of shock on the other man's face, the moment his secret had been found out, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. It won't do to dwell on it. He doesn't have to. Steve won't be able to crack the lock. Tony is safe in here, his technological fortress, and he can avoid thinking about the situation for as long as necessary.

He pauses, his self-introspection interrupted by someone knocking on the door, and he sighs.

"Give up," he calls. "I'm not here."

"If you don't open this door," comes Steve's voice from the other side. "I'll open it myself, Tony. I really will."

Tony can feel his pulse quicken at the sound of the other man's voice, and he mentally kicks himself. He is not a teenage girl. He can handle this.

"Good luck trying!" he retorts. "The lock - "

His gloating is interrupted by the fact that the door is suddenly knocked off its hinges, leaving Steve standing there, an apologetic look on his face.

Tony's blood runs cold.

"No amount of technical genius can make up for brute force," Steve explains. Tony swallows. He's not ready for this. He doesn't want to face Steve. He hadn't planned on having to do this today, if ever. Sarcasm is the way forward, he decides.

"Einstein would probably disagree with you there," he counters. "Weedy little guy, but balls of steel, apparently, and - "

"I made you this," Steve interrupts, and thrusts a painted canvas into Tony's hands.

Tony blinks.

Steve shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, his hands behind his back.

"Do you like it?" he asks weakly, and Tony is too dumbstruck to answer, nodding silently, mouth agape. Steve smiles nervously. "It was Hell trying to hide it from you, you know. You actually ran into me while I was working on it once. Do you remember when you invented that encyclopaedia for me? You sat down next to me while I was sketching the outline, and I was so nervous that you'd notice what I was drawing, but you didn't. You didn't even look. Not once."

Tony blinks. On the canvas, painted in hues of red and gold, is a likeness of Tony himself, sat at his workbench and concentrating on the screen of his tablet. In brushstrokes, Steve has pretty much perfectly captured Tony's look of complete and utter involvement with his work, down to the furrowed lines between his brows and the tell-tale two day stubble of a difficult project.

Tony does not know how to react to this.

"I," he says, and he thinks he's made his point. Steve takes a step closer, and Tony can smell now that he's clearly had at least two cups of coffee this morning to try and pep himself up for this. Even if caffeine has no real chemical effect on him anymore, the placebo effect is clearly still pretty useful. Tony can feel his heart-rate increase, hear the same thing of the other man, and he swallows hard.

"I thought that meant that you didn't care," Steve continues. "I mean, I'd made it as obvious as I could. I kept finding excuses to talk to you. I pretended that I couldn't use my phone, or that I couldn't work the comms system, because I knew that Fury would ask you to fix it, and that would mean you'd have to spend time with me. But you just holed yourself up in the lab, away from me, and then you'd present me with a perfect solution a few days later, and I'd have to find a whole new excuse to talk to you. It was actually kind of exhausting."

"You wanted to talk to me?" says Tony, because that part really hasn't sunk in yet. People don't want to talk to Tony. They want him to update their tech or rewrite their code or donate to charity, and they want him to do all this with as little human interaction as possible. People don't willingly converse with him, and that includes Steve. Especially Steve, who always has something nice to say, whereas Tony would generally rather say nothing at all. "Why?"

Steve raises an eyebrow.

"No, but really," Tony adds. "Why?"

Steve rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Because, Tony," he says, like Tony is a small child. "I like you. So help me, I like you."

"Oh," Tony manages, and then, because he's a glutton for punishment, "why?"

Steve closes his eyes and bites his lip in exasperation, and Tony mentally shoots himself for blowing this. This is why he can't have nice things, he tells himself. This is why he talks to robots instead of people.

Steve's voice actually surprises Tony. He hadn't been expecting an answer.

"You're often rude," the other man begins, and Tony's heart sinks. He doesn't want a list of his faults. He's heard them all before, phrased a thousand different ways on the lips of a hundred different, disappointed people. He's about to protest when Steve continues. "You spend far too much time working. You prefer annoying people to talking to them. You think that a packet of chips and a glass of scotch constitutes a meal. You wear sunglasses indoors. You bought me a ninety-nine cent cheeseburger for my birthday."

Steve finishes, and Tony doesn't really know what to make of that.

"So, what," he says. "In spite of all that, you like me?"

Steve huffs out an exhausted sigh.

"You're really not getting this, are you?" He steps forward again, placing his hands on Tony's shoulders. "It's _because_ of all that that I like you."

"Oh," says Tony, and he can feel the other man's pulse where his thumb is touching the skin of Tony's neck before it meets the fabric of his shirt, and he remembers one afternoon with Pepper when she told him that some people like you for who they want you to be and some people like you for who you might be one day but there are other people who like you for who you _are_, warts and all, and suddenly everything sort of snaps into place and it's all crystal clear, in focus at last, and Tony knows what he has to do.

Steve is still looking at him, like he's afraid he's said something wrong, and Tony cups the other man's face in his hands and leans up, presses their mouths together. It's not the sort of kiss he's used to; Steve kisses like he's afraid, like he's worried Tony will break the seal of their mouths and rate him out of ten and send him away, but it's kissing Steve, and Tony will take that over technique any day. He figures they've got time to work on that, anyway.

Steve pulls away, his hands still at the base of Tony's skull, the fingers of his left hand curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, and smiles slightly, his face flushed. It's an inherently endearing sight.

"So," says Steve. "Will you come out of this darned workshop now?"

Tony looks at the ceiling, chewing on his lip in mock thought.

"I don't know," he replies, slowly. "I mean, clearly the lock still needs more work - "

Steve kisses him to shut him up. Tony really doesn't mind.

He never does finish that lock. He doesn't mind that, either. Bruce minds, of course, but that's because it indirectly causes him to walk in on two very naked superheroes.

Steve bakes him a cake to apologise, and doesn't even complain when Tony spikes it with green food colouring. Tony thinks that might just be the definition of love.


	6. Chapter 6

He's done it. He's finally finished it. It may have taken him six days, eleven reminders from Steve that sleep is important and also more fun when the possibility of it being preceded or followed by something that is very much _not _sleep is present, but he's finished it.

He picks it up and turns it over in his hand, unable to stop the self-satisfied smile from spreading across his face.

Steve is going to love it.

* * *

"What is it?" Steve asks when Tony accosts him in the fourth floor hallway half an hour later. Tony raises an eyebrow.

"You did have sex in the '40s, right?" he clarifies. Steve offers him a withering glance in response, and Tony raises his hands in surrender. "Just checking."

"We did," Steve answers, dubiously prodding the device in Tony's left hand. "But not with... egg whisks."

Tony looks at him in mock horror.

"It is _not_ an egg whisk," he argues. "And if that's what egg whisks looked like in your youth, then I can see why you found it hard to adjust to modern living."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Well, what is it, then?"

Tony grins wickedly.

"Not telling you. I'll show you. Come on."

It's not the most thorough of demonstrations, but it'll do.

* * *

About four days later, Tony is in the kitchen, trying to ignore Thor's attempts at cooking spaghetti Bolognese with Clint, when Bruce comes in, holding something rather suspicious. Tony's throat constricts in fear.

"What's that you've got there?" he asks Bruce. Bruce looks at it and tosses it in his hand, and Tony winces.

"Oh, an egg whisk," Bruce answers. Tony puts his head in his hands. The world is ending.

Thor frowns. Clint's eyes are wide.

"I have not seen an egg whisk thus," Thor says. "Although on Asgard, we tend to flay eggs with horsehair. It makes for a far creamier - "

"And have you used it?" Tony asks. "You know. To whisk eggs."

Bruce laughs, a small, confused huff that makes Tony want to jump out of the fifth storey window.

"Well, yeah," he replies. "I had scrambled eggs this morning."

Clint makes a little whining sound in the back of his throat. He's trying not to laugh.

"Hope they weren't too salty," he says. Bruce looks up at him.

"No, they were pretty good, actually," he says. "The secret is not to use too much seasoning and to keep scrambling them every thirty seconds."

"I'll remember that," Tony says hurriedly. He extends his hand in request of the offending object. Bruce wordlessly hands it over, brow furrowed in concern. "I get cravings," Tony offers by way of explanation. Bruce still looks a little suspicious, but seems to accept it.

"Well, I have to go," he says. "Fury wants to brief me about some new drug they're trialling, says it should help me control the Other Guy. I'm not expecting much, but I'll let you know how it goes."

"Will do," Tony says. He wonders if he could drop dead on will. Bruce turns to leave.

"Oh," he says, suddenly remembering something. "Good luck with the eggs!"

Clint splutters. Tony's toes curl.

"Eggs," comes a flat voice from behind him. To Tony's horror, Steve is standing in the doorway behind Clint.

"Yeah, we were just talking about this pretty neat egg whisk I found on the table," Bruce explains. Steve looks at Tony. Tony looks at the ceiling. "Anyway, talk to you all later. Bye!" Bruce calls cheerily over his shoulder, before exiting.

Tony huffs out a breath that he didn't realise he was holding.

"You left it on the kitchen table," Steve states flatly.

"Apparently so," Tony confirms. Steve puts his head in his hands.

Clint looks at Tony. Tony looks at Clint. Steve looks at the floor, apparently willing it to swallow him up. Tony can empathise.

"Was that - " Clint begins.

"Yep," Tony affirms. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and Clint shudders, his face an open display of horror.

"I am never eating eggs again," he says.

"Isn't that like cannibalism for you anyway?" Tony asks. "You know, what with you being Hawkeye and everything."

Clint glares at him.

"You can try and insult me all you want, Tony," he says. "But I didn't just have my kinky sex life exposed to everyone."

Tony has to hand it to him. He has a point. He shrugs.

"Fair point," he says. Clint smirks.

"Enjoy your scrambled eggs," he says, before hopping down from the kitchen counter and leaving.

Tony watches him go, a distinct spring in his step that only comes from winning an argument. Tony should know. It's his default walking style.

Steve clears his throat, and Tony turns to look at him. Steve is blushing furiously, his face almost as red as his hoodie – one of Thor's old ones, back from when he was still attempting to blend in with Midgard conventions – and Tony shrugs helplessly. Steve sighs.

"Is it always going to be like this?" he asks. Tony feels a lump of anxiety in his throat. 'Like this'? What does that mean?

"Like what?" he asks, trying for cool but ending up with nervous. Steve looks at him pointedly.

"Egg whisks on the table and... not on the table," he answers, a little flustered.

Tony grins.

"Probably."

Steve tilts his head to the side contemplatively.

"I quite like scrambled eggs," he says.

"They're chronically underrated," Tony agrees. "And a perfect accompaniment to toast. But my God, Steve, we are not using that as a euphemism for sex ever again."

"I like toast, as well."

Tony frowns.

"What does that mean?"

Steve shrugs.

"No idea," he replies. "I was speaking euphemistically. But we can find out."

To this day, Tony still isn't entirely sure what it means, but he likes it.


End file.
